Strawberry
by A Pumpkin Pasty
Summary: Harry tells her not to, but she waits. It is hard and it hurts and she tries to forget.' A series of wartime vignettes, set before Deathly Hallows and featuring Harry and Ginny.


_Author's Note: Written before Deathly Hallows for lilyvalley73._

**Strawberry**

He tells her not to, but she waits. It is hard and it hurts and she tries to forget. Tries to forget the line of his jaw and the rumble of his voice when he laughs at her antics. But it is hard and it hurts and soon, she realises that she can't.

* * *

He spends his days with his two best friends, fighting the war that's cost him everything – the war that's cost him _her_. It is hard and it hurts and he strains his mind, desperate to remember the softness of her skin, the taste of her lips, _anything_. Desperate to remember the sweetness of her voice and the glint of her coppery hair. But it is hard and it hurts and soon, he realises that he can't.

His resolve falters one evening after skirting with death once more, and, his hand quivering, he writes her a letter. The quill scratches mercilessly against the parchment; he scrunches his face up and stuffs the letter in Hedwig's outstretched claw before he can change his mind.

It's a scribble in haste, nothing more, but it says all he needs to say.

* * *

_Need you_.

She clenches the note in her fist tightly, wrinkling the smooth surface, mangling the words, biting back the awful lump rising in her throat. Hedwig hoots softly and nibbles at her ear.

It is a scribble in haste, nothing more, but it says all she needs to know.

Trembling, she slips the parchment beneath her pillow and sinks into a restless, dream-filled sleep. She won't write back.

* * *

He lies awake at night, staring at the moonlight filtering through the window and wondering vaguely if she is watching it, too. She once told him that the sky was her favourite place in the whole world - which was strange, she said, because it wasn't really _part_ of the world, was it?

He wonders if that's why she likes it so much.

* * *

Ginny has a window in her room. It is not large, but it's enough to reveal the slice of half-moon, pale and gleaming against the inky sky.

She also has thick curtains lining her window, and every night before she falls asleep, she magics them shut.

* * *

Winter sets in and his fight intensifies. In the shoddy inn where he sleeps, lodgings are icy and food is scarce. Under the cover of darkness, Ron and Hermione find ways to fight the cold, but Harry – Harry closes his eyes and tries to remember her, warm and soft beneath his hands.

It doesn't work. Instead, he shivers beneath his cloak and falls into a restless, dream-filled sleep.

* * *

She doesn't sleep at night, not anymore. It is too cold. She is too empty. It is too quiet.

She can't forget him. She can't forget him, so she stops trying. And at night, once she has closed the curtains, she lets her hands roam, teasing her skin just _there_, pretending that they are his hands, his lips, his tongue -

It is never enough.

She is too cold.

* * *

Spring thaws the ice on the trees, and still, the war hasn't ended. Ron disappears one evening and returns an hour later, his arms full of Chocolate Frogs and Bertie Botts, Licorice Wands and Pumpkin Pasties. Hermione's mouth falls open, but Ron silences her with a wide grin and the reminder that They Deserve This.

Ron tears into the Chocolate Frogs; Hermione nibbles at the corner of a pasty before devouring it in one swallow, when she thinks Harry has turned his back.

Harry dives for the flavoured beans, tipping a handful into his palm and popping a red one into his mouth. Strawberry.

_Strawberry._ Her favourite. _Her_ favourite.

He remembers.

He picks all of them out and stacks them in a pile, then stuffs that pile into the pocket of his robes. For later, he tells himself.

They remind him of her.

* * *

Spring brings life to the Burrow: chicks, butterflies, lilies, apple blossoms.

She should love these things; she should marvel in their simplicity, in their beauty, in their magic, just like she has since she was a little girl. But she can't. And she won't.

There's an old shirt she finds in Ron's room, an emerald green polo that's missing a button. It's _his_. She remembers. _His_. She clutches it to her chest and inhales.

It still smells like him, vaguely.

That night she puts it on and huddles in the corner of her room, beneath her window, beneath the moonlight.

It reminds her of him.

* * *

The summer rain splashes great, fat drops in his hair, soaking him through on the evening he returns home.

She is, of course, the first person he sees, and she is everything he's needed, everything he's wanted, everything he's forgotten and tried to remember. It is almost too much. He doesn't know what to say.

She is in the kitchen when she sees him trudging up the walk, tall, dark, sopping wet and bruised. Her heart aching, she thunders down the steps and throws herself against the wind, against the hot summer rain, before skidding to a stop an arm's length away from him.

He is perfect – everything she's needed, everything she's wanted, everything she's remembered and tried to forget.

There is a pain in her side and her heart is pounding and she can't seem to _breathe_.

"That's my shirt," he says. She smiles faintly.

"I know."

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handful of small, round somethings. "These are for you. I know you like them."

She peers into his hand.

"Strawberry. You remembered."

"Yeah."

A silence, a pause. The rain pours. Lightning flashes, in the distance.

"I've missed you, Harry."

A sigh. He runs his hands through his hair, blinking rainwater from his eyes.

"I've missed you, too, Gin."

She pops a bean into her mouth; he takes two. They start up the walk, their shoulders brushing with each step.

"So," she says, taking his hand, "did you save all the treacle-flavoured ones, too?"


End file.
